I head to the smoking hall. Talking to a russian, a greek, an israeli.

Smoking scented black cigarettes. Offering to trade licks with some ex-middle eastern military tough. Taller than my tall self, certainly in better shape. He talks a big game. "I'll brake you, you won't be able to lifit you arm."

He's weak and I know it. Scared for some reason of this strange smoking Texan unafraid of pain, looking to feel something.

I want to feel, want to know that I'm here.

The thug walks away. I don't care. I light another smoke...

Broken. Lost in this city I no longer see.

6 years, 1000 clubs, 1000 nights, it all looks the same.

These beautiful people around me, dancing and moving to the beat of better dance music than most people will hear, and I don't care.

I realize, it's time. When you don't see the buildings, when the crowds cease to be an opportunity and become a hassle, when the music becomes something to work around looking for something real. It's time to leave. I've sucked the city dry, leaving nothing but the quick.

A stonger man might have done better, a better man might have been stonger, but as for me, it's time to go.